


End of The Line

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Cannibalism, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fuck Pheromones?, Gore, Mentions of Rape, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 06:18:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10551488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Anon asked: Are you only writing Lucas fanfics? Would you write a Hoffman/reader...?Warning for: Dubious consent, canon-typical violence, and cannibalism. See rest of tags for more warnings.I'd like to say thank you to Zoadgo for her incredible Beta skills (I feel like I've reached a level of completion having someone so wonderful checking my garbage for fires)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



He wouldn’t stop muttering about his wife and child, but you knew - you knew that wife of his was nothing but an ex-wife now and his baby girl? A thirteen-year-old that had been fed lies from her dear, sweet Mama and wanted nothing to do with her dear ol’ Daddy. You knew this because he’d looked at you across his personal cell (a dog crate made for a rottweiler), saw the cross around your neck and confessed himself to you right there while the paterfamilias chopped his younger brother into pieces small enough to fit inside an oven.

A desperate plea passed between the both of you then, as if only in this moment of unrelenting fear could two people join together so swiftly; so intimately…

In that moment you felt as though you’d known him forever.

You didn’t have the heart to correct him, not when he was fresh from a blackout and angry, scared and regretful of the mistakes he’d made up until that point. He told you of the girlfriend he'd cheated on in college, the way he’d stopped caring if his wife loved him or not, that man he killed overseas as he served his so-called country. You sat there curled in your cage and listened with a sinking feeling unrelated to the prospect of being sliced and diced for dinner. 

Not wanting to play the appointment of a priest you only said, under a deep breath, “Jus’ accept the Lord, Mister - accept him and he’ll fur’give them sins. I promise.” 

It would have been better if he'd never exorcised his demons to you - it made you want to tell your own, but it would do no good. He, Hoffman - that was his name - he settled down and simply stared at you; at the necklace. 

You couldn’t tell him that the cross had been your sister’s and you weren’t as much a believer as you were just glad to have something to remember your mentor by, but… you kept your mouth shut and offered him a wet, tear-stained smile instead. The way his eyes softened, under all those lines of stress, made you feel less terrible for lying to him. Might not be a believer in God right now, but you wanted to go out on good terms with Him if he did exist. If you could offer this man some small comfort before he was murdered - before you were - then you’d do it. 

You knelt there in your own cage, legs folded up against your stomach with your bloodied fingers wrapped around the metal lattice and watched him as he kept staring at you. 

Wet, sloppy sounds battered the tiles across the way. Only a thin plastic shower curtain drawn back hid the blurry machinations of their captor's arm as it raised and fell, snapping down; hacking away legs in short sections and ripping out fat slimy guts. Another massive, moist bundle fell to the floor with a hearty slap, and you watched with sweat falling down the side of your face as Hoffman squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head. Breaking... 

You’d lost a sibling as well, but not like this… never like this. It was wrong of you to say anything about it, but you did anyways, not wanting him to fall into himself just yet, “Hey...it’s okay now. He ain't in pain no more...think about that fur’ me, please. Fur’ him. He’s in a bettah place now.”

“I know,” he whispers, the distinct sound of emotional pain lodged in his throat. 

You sit there staring at him, hoping that something about the eye contact will bring him a little strength - it does something for you at least. That all consuming panic that followed you the first day has ebbed into a hollow, puke-stained panic, but as you stare at Hoffman, with his green eyes and that broken, Romanesque nose, you find that the dread rolls into a slow simmer and somehow you can think a little more clearly. 

Time passes like eddies on the shore - it’s slow, and each wet smack flows in time with those white waves crashing. Red.

The devil made flesh, who had hacked your hair off and slung a dog collar ‘round your throat, doesn’t kill you that night. He leaves Hoffman alone as well, much to your tender elation. It isn’t until the ol’ man’s high, chortling echoes are gone that you pull your cross into your palm, whisper a half-remembered prayer and yank it off your neck. Mary will forgive you, after all. She’d want you to live where she hadn’t; didn’t.

The skinny, hot pain it makes around your neck is nothing compared to what the rest of you feels like. Your black eye throbs under your mushy cheekbone as you squint in the darkness, trying to decide where to start on the shoddy cross.

Hoffman makes a faint sound, but you can feel his eyes on you as you thread your fingers through the crate and wobble at the padlock. It’s one of those five-dollar kinds that kids in middle school had for their lockers, but thankfully you used to steal from kids lockers during your many hall passes to the bathroom back when you were a troubled child. You used to use bobby pins to force the locks up back then, but the cross will have to do. It. Will. Do.

Your sister would understand, even if she’d never been so disappointed in you as the time she’d caught you stealing from Randal Ross in the sixth-grade. You’d stopped picking locks after that, but some things you just never forget.

Thankfully, in the darkness, Hoffman sees what it is you're doing and remains quiet. The monster had lumbered back to his pit, but the both of you won’t dare make any unnecessary noises so as to alert anyone nearby. There are others, maybe other victims, that you’ve heard grumblin’ and groaning through the walls. The only sound Hoffman allows himself is that of a quiet shuffle as he twists and turns, watching you. His gaze feels hot and moist - like a kiss, but you try to ignore it as you pick your fingers bloody over the cross pendant. One of your nails bends back, and you hiss, unable hold in the astonishing pain. 

“...you okay?” he whispers, and through the thick blanket of grayness, you nod, swallowing the pain down.

You attack the cross once more, biting the tip of your tongue so the next time your nail catches and breaks you won’t make a sound. The cross, it’s nothing special - it’s not made of silver or inlaid with gems, just painted metal, soft enough to bend. The little welds fusing the edging around the arms finally crack and after that it’s all a matter of time sawing the thin weld away with your nails. By the time you’re done, you have two and a half inches of thin metal wire about the same thickness of one of those bobby pins you’d used so long ago. 

It is, however, another thing entirely to do this half-blind and with so little grip on the lock. At one point the blood seeping from your ruined nails makes your fingers slip, and that precious strip of metal nearly falls to the floor, four feet below. The putrid panic startles your heart so harshly it feels like you’ve had a minor heart attack. Blood rushes up in your ears, flooding your starved brain as the possibility runs home. You could have lost it all, right then.

For minutes you lay there, hunched in your cage, the metal bit against your lips, thanking the Lord you hadn’t dropped it.

“...you can do it,” Hoffman whispers - it’s so soft and sincere and reassuring that you confuse it for a holy voice until you finally have the lock hanging loose in the clasp at the front of your cell.

“...beautiful,” he says again under his breath and it’s then you realize it had been him encouraging you all that time. 

Shaken, but proud, you give him a small smile and try not to tremble as you flip the lock above your fingers, trying to pull the loop free without it clattering to the floor. 

Getting out of the cage is its own chore. It takes what feels like an hour to get the door open, fumbling the lock over the tips of your fingers without it dropping and hauling your butt out despite having to crawl out head first without splitting your skull on the floor. When your feet hit the slick tiles, you feel waves of excited adrenaline seep into your skin. You’re proud of yourself for rushing to Hoffman before even thinking about making the escape on your own. Logically, you know two are better than one against the mad men walking the halls - or the demons that linger in the darkness. You can’t help yourself, but you pause long enough to thread your fingers through the square metal mesh, digits petting the stubble on his jaw. 

You thumb away a crusty line of blood over his chin from the old well that had gushed from his broken nose.

His hot, stale breath wafts in your face and down your torn collar as you stare into his moist eyes. There’s something there in his eyes - something born from your shared despair. You feel whole, looking at him like this and the tender sound he makes as you pull your touch away makes you think it’s not so one-sided as your crazed mind may have thought. Quickly, you work the bent metal rod up inside his lock, making more noise than before in your haste. His eyebrows bunch; green eyes going dark and intense.

“Take a deep breath, and relax for me,” he tells you, still so soft and gentle and it feels like that one time the Doctors gave you that sedative after the car crash when they’d informed you about your sister. His voice is soothing like only drugs had been, and with a steady breath, you hear the lock click and jam the rod upwards, seeing the latch press up and open.

He exhales in tender relief. 

You huff, swallow a cry of delight and carefully pull the lock away. It’s quicker than when you’d freed yourself. Unlike you, he has help getting out. Though you’re weak and starved and half-delirious with the idea of freedom, you keep your arms firm on his chest, around the meat of his shoulders as he twists and works his way out of the cage. 

Both your bodies are cramped and sore, but adrenaline is a miracle for the body and without hesitation, you wrap your arms around him. Hoffman’s built like a bull, with broad shoulders and a thick, sturdy waist and as you cling to him and he clings to you, you feel the safest you’ve felt for days. There, in hell, with the intense scent of blood and gore sticking to your clothes and nostrils, you hold each other like you’re fused by the hip.

Where he goes, you go and vice versa.

“...how’s yur leg?” You ask him, as he searches a workbench for something, anything. 

“It’s better, somehow… I don’t feel it.”

You nod, curling your fingers in his warm jacket. He seems to sense something without you even realizing it. You’re shaking, shivering, and before you can say anything in rebuttal he’s got his jacket buttoned down and has it draped around your shoulders. He helps your arms through the sleeves and blows out an exhale as he buttons you up in the musky, warm fabric. Armor.

“...thank you,” you manage, but he only stares and nods, looking oddly entranced.

By the time he’s found a butcher's knife and you a broken baseball bat, you’re both red-eyed and panting. The effort of moving after being stuck in a cramped cage going on thirteen hours has taken its toll. Dregs of stale energy pull at your lungs and with each inhale, that messy, bees-around-a-hive feeling pounds between your temples.

The look Hoffman gives you bids the nausea down. The bat feels like a twig in your hands.

You watch with ample, spooked eyes as he leans down - a hand around your neck - and kisses you. It’s audacious and wrong, but you feel like you’ve got a chance to survive this hell and so when you press back up into his lips, it’s eager and thankful. There’s no tongue. All in all, it’s chaste but hard, and though he pulls back looking guilty, you’re smiling and tugging him close at your back, raising the bat in the air. 

Out of all the kisses, you could have as your last, his was a blessing.

Behind you, he murmurs, “I’m buying you a steak dinner when this is over.” 

It makes one corner of your lips quirk upwards. Not if, but when this was over, Hoffman said. You needed that. Confessing himself to you has drained him of something foul, and now he’s nothing but a beacon of hope in this darkness. It takes a real man to joke in a situation like this. You appreciate it, but words of thanks stop dead behind your teeth as something… inhuman gurgles through the walls. 

Here there be demons; you think in your sister’s voice.

“...Hoffman,” you whisper, wringing your sweaty palms around the smooth wood grain of the baseball bat, embracing the feeling of his jacket surrounding you. You’ve never played baseball, but right now you feel oddly invincible; sure you’ll meet your mark when you make your swing.

The corridors are lanky with mold; bricks forced out like toppling Jenga pieces by the black growth. Before now you’ve seen things moving in the darkness. They’ve been tall, lumbering demons with slobbery fangs poised towards the ceiling. You saw the outline of a skinny, serrated limb flooding through a hallway of candlelight the day prior - it’s needle tipped fingers curled and bobbing as it shuffled away, but you were never outside your cage when you saw such things. You’re in the open now. You feel like meat on a plate; equally unable to defend yourself as a burger would be.

Something spindly opens and closes; a jaw expanding in the distance.

At the time you’d told yourself it was but panic making your eyes see things that weren’t there, but you pause there in the hallway, staring down at the end where something bubbles and burps against the side wall. Its mountainous head lumbers against strings of viscous branches holding it to the wall. It shakes its head like a dog damned with ear mites, gurgles wetly and finally sags against its strings.

Hoffman pauses at your back, wrapping an arm around your chest, holding you in close; a shield of protection. The hard warmth against your back provides an ounce of comfort but not enough to bring back that bravado from before. It will have to do, you think as you wrap a palm around his straining wrist, bracing yourself for what’s about to happen. 

You have one step already poised in front you when his large fingers squeeze around your arm, tugging you back.

“Back me up,” Hoffman floods into your right ear, leaving sweat on your neck and warmth down your shoulder. A part of you doesn’t appreciate how he tugs you to the side, brushing you behind him, but you're terrified, and it’s your weapon that has reach, not his. If he ducks down to avoid one of those knuckle dragger’s swipes you’ll be able to whack it in the maw - at least you hope you will.

Despite how your stomach pulls at being so far away from him, you keep half a body's length back, bat raised parallel with your shoulders. Ready, you tell yourself, keeping each breath calm and controlled despite how hard you want to gasp oxygen into your lungs. His shoulders bow and tense through the thin, pale blue of his shirt. You stare at the hem of it as it bunches around the top of his jeans, only one corner left tucked in. 

Hoffman is muscular and powerful, and with him, you'll survive this; both of you will.

The demons are less agile on their feet than Hoffman is - so slow it’s as if they aren’t even concerned with him. You don’t even need to swing your bat before the thing is liquefying into itself, melting into the grooves of broken brick and cracked cement. It smells like burning rubber and rotten fruit, but it fades into a long, expanding puddle and does not reform.

It’s stupid, but you're too busy staring at the mess left behind by the first to notice the second. It slips into your back, throwing you into a wall; tearing away your breath. Beside you, Hoffman snarls, and from this angle, you can see the shadow he throws down the hallway. A dark arm raises and crashes down, over and over again. It reminds you of the wet hacking from the old man. 

Hoffman’s nothing but a feral when you finally brace yourself and twist to see him. There he stands over the second; back expanding with hard breathes.

The way he looks at you… it's nothing like the looks you’d shared before, and in the span of a heartbeat, you’re running from him instead of running with him. 

He nips at your heels, barreling around the corner you barely got around without slipping. Something else, long and black shucks itself off the wall, but you run and run and keep running even as the cut on the bottom of your foot opens up again, mixing blood with whatever fresh rot makes the floors so moist.

“Come-come here!” Hoffman barks, sounding inhuman. 

Too focused on running, you hold in a sob and shove your shoulder into a metal door. It doesn’t budge. It’s locked and before you can even turn around Hoffman is on you; chest slamming you against the cold, damp surface. Breath runs down the side of your neck, and you can smell something like burning sulfur and a thrill of adrenaline. This is it - this is how you die. You’ve had days now to accept your fate, but the idea is still terrifying, especially after the fragile hope you’d instilled in one another.

“...please, Lord,” you whisper hauntingly. Last words, you think. It could have been worse.

The killing blow doesn’t come, however. Instead you crack your eyes open and stare into a face wrought with confusion, panic, and guilt. It’s like the look Hoffman had fixed you with after kissing you, but ten-fold. 

“She’s got me,” he says; pupils shrunk down to pinpoints, “got me...but she wants you - not me!”

“W-w-who?” You stutter, tugging the bat in your grip closer to your bent leg, wondering it you can get a crack at him at this angle. You can’t, you know it and swallow at the wild look you see in his eyes.

This time, when he leans in and kisses you, you drop the bat and shove at his thick shoulders. It does nothing. You’re weaker than him, you’re slower and sore, and whatever it is that’s taken hold of him gives him the advantage. You thin your lips as his teeth scrape them. His tongue digs at the seam of your mouth with enough pressure to bruise, and somewhere in the back of your throat, you scream. 

Hoffman is not himself. He’s not the same man that told you about how he’d lost his job trying to repair a failing marriage - how his daughter hated him after one night of drinking proved his ex-wife right.

Tears run down your cheeks as you gasp at the hand he suddenly shoves between your legs. His kiss turns grave now that your lips are parted. It’s oppressive and violent. His hot tongue slides over your teeth and flips pointedly under your own; coaxing some terrible sound from your throat at the contact. 

Between the fear and panic, you feel a wave of warmth, but it’s unnatural and fades too quickly to change the fact that his unyielding fingers have started massaging you through your jeans, rubbing in unwanted brushes of pleasure. It stings, both inside and out. Just the very idea of him raping you like this; tearing away all that hope. It’s a betrayal more than it is anything else.

“H-hoffman - please,” you whimper, wanting to scream but too afraid to alert the demons nearby. 

Just as you’re trying to accept what’s about to happen to you, something thicker than saliva floods your mouth, as if leaking from him to you - it’s sweet and viscous like molasses. The ooze slips down your throat and suddenly...you sigh - fear all but gone - and flick your tongue against his own. Hoffman, or what used to be Hoffman, snarls into your mouth and yanks his hand from between your legs, undoing the clasp under your navel with blind fury.

“Hoffman,” this time when you say his voice it's in a cloud of quivering desire. There’s nothing sane left of you.

You shiver, skin hot and damp with sweat underneath his jacket. He tears the button on your jeans and shoves the denim down, taking your underwear with it. Somewhere you hear the little metal button skipping over the floor, never to be seen again. Hoffman leaves your jeans and panties bunched around your inner thighs and spins your around. The taste of rusty metal floods past your lips as he presses your face into the door. Hypnotized by something wholly unknown, you whimper and arch your spine, bracing your feet flat underneath you for what’s so close.

“...I’m sorry, it’s - she wants me to,” he grates out against your cheek. 

The stubble on his face rubs your skin like sandpaper, but that’s alright - everything’s alright now. Hard, hot skin presses between your legs, nudging your slippery folds and with nothing but two soft sounds, Hoffman slips inside you. The door bangs inside its thick hinges, and he engulfs himself in your cunt; hips pressed obscenely close to the soft skin of your rear.

You breathe, embrace the feeling and listen through the door as someone screams. It could be you, you think, panting open-mouthed against the metal as penetrating flesh burns, sliding out of you, only to shove back in. The door bangs at the force of Hoffman’s thrust, and with a gasp you take it. Perhaps you whimper something nasty and degrading - it feels like you do because suddenly a large hand is pushing into the back of your neck and jutting hips are smacking into your ass at a fever pace.

He drives his cock deep and merciless, overtaken by some disease in the air - in what he vomited down your throat. 

You lick your lips, moan and taste the lingering traces of sugar. Hoffman grunts and snarls, licking a trail up the side of your face and bites the edge of your eyebrow. He fucks into you with a torrent of mangled words and brutal stabs. The slick that he pulls out of you feels fresh and sticky when he presses back inside - the air cooling the wetness despite how overheated your body feels. 

Jagged rust cuts into your face, rubs the skin off your palms as you brace yourself but those are all fleeting feelings easily ignored. You focus on the push and pull inside you and the raw ache of pain and pleasure and wonder how you ended up here. It was just moments ago you were both edging the walls like partners in crime; weapons raised for divine fury. Now you’re drooling against the surface Hoffman has you pinned against, getting fucked and unable to muster the strength to fight it - you wouldn’t even if you could. Your body sings in sweet agony, accepting the unrelenting pound of his fat cock with a sloppy grin and grateful whimpers. 

“Ye-essss,” you moan and then, as he tears at the flesh above your black eye - blood flowing down into your vision - you scream. Swiftly you tumble down that dark bottomless pit into an orgasm. It’s slimy and deep; punishing. What Hoffman empties inside you, with his nails dug into the nape of your neck and his teeth tearing, feels like acid. It burns and eats you from the inside out, filling your stomach with ravenous worms. 

His cock nestles inside you, deep and profoundly a part of you now; drained, yet still thick and hard.

Hoffman’s teeth come out of your skin, lips sliding sticky down the side of your face. He tugs your neck and slips his lips over your own. Blood falls over your tongue, feeding something that’s hungry for more. You sigh sweetly, kiss him back with a softly parted mouth and shove your teeth into his tongue. The sounds he makes brings nothing but pleasure even if it's a hiss of pain he gives you. 

More - more - more blood rushes over your palate. 

The sloppy bite to his tongue seems to clear his head because a litany of apologies fills the air between you both. 

His hands pull off your bare, bruised hips and around your warm, jacket-covered waist, he hugs you. 

“...please, forgive me, baby.” It isn't an apology meant for you. 

He's coming to and sees what he's done; feeling a failure. Hoffman’s ashamed and unfit for his daughter’s love now - but you know… you know there's no leaving now, anyway. He'll never see his baby girl again, and you’ll never make it back home. You're both tainted now even if he thinks he's able minded once again. 

You're both fucked. 

Something is inside you and whatever it was that he'd slipped down your throat is joining with the cum inside your cunt, mixing and seeping through tissue, organ meat and bone. It flows into your bloodstream, feeding your brain with snaps of blinding tickles and needles of pleasure. There's no way Hoffman’s getting out of here alive. If you feel like this - given to you by him - then this is the end of the line. 

“Hoffman, this’s it…” you tell him, letting him hold you close; his broken, bloody nose pressing over the collar of the jacket besides your neck. He’s whispering apologies still...and around you, you can hear demons shuffling. They don't bother the two of you. They smell it. Whatever is inside, tainted and growing, they can detect it, “...we belong hea’ now.”

Hoffman exhales a ragged breath down your throat and tugs the bottom of his jacket around your hips. The sharp scent of cum and mold assails your nostrils as he clutches the fabric around the tops of your thighs and pulls his flaccid cock out of you. Somewhere you hear the explicit scrape of metal brushing above concrete, but Hoffman doesn't seem to understand. He leans in and lays his forehead on the back of your shoulder, rubbing his palms up under the jacket; touching ribs. 

The darkness holds so much that you don't bother looking - just listen. It isn’t until you both are standing upright again, swaying under a dense haze that you understand the true extent of what's just occurred. You gladly allowed a crazed Hoffman to fuck you in the open...as the demons watched on passively.

You laugh; unable to stop yourself even as the distant metal scrape rings louder. It's closing in. Beelzebub is coming for them. The devil. The old man with blood on his teeth and hunger in his gut for flesh and screams curdled and broken. 

Hoffman chuckles with you, just as war-torn as your own, “W-we’re done.”

You are - the both of you are finished. You should have known it wouldn’t have been that easy. It may have been your joined laughs of relief, but you’re rather sure the old man knew where you both were long before Hoffman had spent himself inside you. 

Someone had the place rigged with cameras. You’re sure it’s how they found you the first time you’d tried to escape. 

Hoffman bares his teeth in a dead smile and with a thick whack, he goes down in front of you, hit in the back of his skull. They must have thought he was stronger than you, more of a threat, and you see why when Hoffman crumbles, revealing a thin figure with glowing eyes set inside a pitiless hood. The outline of a tire iron lowers between you and death.

The figure smiles; teeth glowing as bright as his eyes, “Really enjoyed the show there, sweetheart, but ah’ got some plans fer stud-boy ovah’ here and it's one oh’ them ‘no girls allowed sitche-ations…”

You blink.

At your silence he continues, giggling, “Don’ be like that, ‘baby gurrrrlll.' I'll find somethin’ fer you reee’al soon. Promise!”

This new Devil thought to take out Hoffman before you. At your feet he’s motionless but still breathing. They believed that it would be easier to deal with a girl alone than let the man get an upper hand - better to put down the man before taking on something like you. 

You pride yourself in getting a punch on the man's face; knuckles brushing a jutting, unshaven jaw bone. You watch a few splatters of blood leak out of that abyssal hood, proud enough before your torn collar is twisted in a pasty, vien-grown fist. 

“Causin’ me tah rethink my previous plan ya know’!” he cajoles, before slapping his knuckles into your cheek, making the world spin and your ears ring. He gets you again, this time between your eyes and everything goes dark…

You fall to the floor, limp over Hoffman’s warm body and whimper. Your jeans are still stuck down around your thighs and damn it all...you don’t have the energy or the coordination to pull them up. It’s embarrassing, but this man’s already seen it... 

“Ah’ got somethin’ bettah in mind fer you, sweetie - somethin’ way bettah!”

...again, you laugh, swallowed back by the darkness. Of course, even death wouldn’t be easy.

**Author's Note:**

> I got to this a little late in the game because I wasn't sure how to make it work for a character I only ever knew by way of chopping off is fingers, causing him internal hemorrhaging and eventually living while he died, so inspiration took awhile to come to me on this. I hope you like it in some way, Anon. It was fun once I got sat down with an idea.
> 
> Once again, bigs thanks to Zoadgo making this more readable that it ever could be under my 'studios' eyes.
> 
> Tumblr ----> http://brimbrimbrimbrim.tumblr.com/


End file.
